Shimura Trouble

4

NO ONE PROTESTED when I offered to take the wheel for our drive to the resort where we had rented a house. Perhaps it was because everyone was tired, or because the minivan was such a rat-trap. There appeared to be taco chip crumbs all over the front seat, and some kind of unknown sticky substance in the driver’s side cup-holder. It was the worst spot in a vehicle with stained upholstery, air-conditioning that blew in hot air, and a very loud engine.

“Now, Rei, you can just follow my car out H-1 West as I drive straight home and we’ll start the reunion! Margaret’s working today, but I can stop off and get a nice pupu platter somewhere,” Edwin said after we’d all settled ourselves, more or less, in the minivan.

In the rear-view mirror, I caught Hiroshi and Tom exchanging anxious glances. I didn’t need to look at my father, in the seat next to mine, to know that he was also too fatigued to eat Hawaiian hors d’oeuvres at Edwin’s house. “I’m so sorry, but I wonder if we could come to visit tomorrow? We are all a bit tired right now.”

“Yes, I apologize, but I would really like to get to the resort, unpack and lie down,” my father said.

“For health reasons,” Uncle Hiroshi added.

“What health reason?” Edwin looked at my father curiously, and I realized then that my father must not have communicated anything about the stroke.

“My father’s recovering from surgery,” I volunteered.

Edwin blinked. “For what?”

“Nothing serious,” my father said shortly, and Edwin nodded.

“OK, OK! You come by when you ready. I gotta advise you that this place you thinking of staying, Kainani, is not a place where you can experience what it’s really like living in Hawaii. You gonna be cooped up in a time-share tower with a lot of mainlanders. My buddy Irwin’s got some rental cottages up the coast at Makaha Point you wouldn’t believe, and there’s a three bedroom available-”

“Thank you so much, Cousin Edwin, but the non-refundable deposit has been made,” I said firmly. “And we’re renting a whole house that we selected because it’s just a mile from your home!”

“Call me Uncle, and it’s closer than this.” Edwin pinched his left thumb and middle finger together. “I can lead you out there. The problem is, it’s a gated resort. They might not let a local guy like me drive on the premises.”

“Oh, dear. If you could lead us out to the freeway, that would be very nice,” I said, thinking that while Edwin was no doubt exaggerating, if we got off on the wrong foot with him, the whole month would be spoiled. And if things were spoiled, my father would be anxious-and that anxiety could lead to a stroke.

“OK then. Follow me.” Edwin slammed the minivan’s door closed and then climbed into a silver Toyota Tacoma truck streaked with red mud, parked a few spaces away. He pulled out into the parking lot aisle, and I hurried to keep up.

“Well done, Rei-chan,” Uncle Hiroshi said from the backseat.

“Don’t say that until Rei’s gotten us there safely,” my father cautioned from his perch beside me.

“I’m referring to the way your daughter handled Edwin-san,” Hiroshi said. “It’s a good thing she stopped him from taking us to the other house.”

“What do you think of Edwin?” I asked the rear-seat passengers.

“What do you think?” Hiroshi turned the question round with perfect Japanese etiquette that made me want to shriek.

“He wants to organize everything for us,” my father murmured. “It’s quite natural, I suppose, since we’ve come from far away.”

“I’m so glad you didn’t agree to change resorts,” I said to my father. We’d stopped at the parking attendant’s booth, and I suddenly realized I needed to pay. I turned to my cousin and Uncle Hiroshi in the rear passenger seats and asked for a parking ticket.

“Oh, no! Edwin has the ticket,” Tom said.

My heart sunk. There was no way I’d be able to flag down Edwin, since his vehicle had already cleared the traffic gate.

“No need pay,” said the parking lot attendant, a middle-aged Hawaiian woman with a small white flower tucked behind one ear; a blossom that looked like one of the flowers in my lei.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t have a ticket.”

“No, no. The guy in the truck before you, he pay for everything. He say tell you aloha and welcome to Hawaii.”

After we passed through the gate and on to the freeway, following Edwin’s silver truck, I thought about things. Maybe I’d judged my new uncle too quickly. Paying for our parking had been a kind thing to do. My father said as much as we rode along past a landscape that no longer seemed tropical; dry hills scattered with housing estates and big box stores like Old Navy and OfficeMax. H-1 suddenly seemed like a typical traffic-choked freeway in Southern California. Only the shifting gray and white clouds overhead, the soaring mountains and occasional flashes of blue ocean gave me hope that something different might be ahead.

By the time we’d passed the exit for Pearl City, Edwin’s silver truck was three cars ahead of us, and I tried to keep it in sight, but there were plenty of distractions: vans decorated with Japanese company names, city buses, and cars towing other vehicles with only a few feet of rope connecting them. My father tutted in disapproval at the sight of young men sitting atop steel trunks in the open backs of pick-up trucks.

“Get around that truck before someone flies off and lands in front of our van,” my father advised. “Can we get into the HOV lane?”

Yes we can, I decided after reading a sign that defined a high occupancy vehicle as one containing two people. Now that was different from California-not to mention the fact that the other cars here easily made way for us to merge into the diamond-marked lane. I was almost shocked by the courtesy. Perhaps this was an example of ‘Drive with Aloha’, a message I had seen on an electronic traffic message board a few miles back.

After passing the town of Waipahu, speed picked up. Most of the cars had defected to a north-bound freeway. The traffic jam was over, and there were fewer stores and houses along the freeway, just dry brown land marked with sparse trees, rocks, and the occasional large burnt-black expanse. There must have been some brush fires here, I thought, and then yearned a bit for the lush green north-east section of Oahu where most of my botany course had taken place. Uncle Hiroshi had been kind enough to undertake the search for our housing, but obviously he didn’t know that he was booking on the non-tropical side.

H-1 West ended, and I was now driving a one-lane road called Farrington Highway. Farrington was a big name on the island, that of one of the most influential governors of Oahu, and founder of the Honolulu Star-Bulletin newspaper. My reverie was broken by a hand-lettered sign propped on the right side of the road. It read, FRESH COLD LYCHEE. Twenty feet later, a second sign entreated, YOU WANT? followed by the final enticement: SO SWEET! I slowed slightly to get a look at a man hunched in the payload of a dusty truck sorting fruit.

The next signs I saw were official ones: Kainani, 7 miles. And on the left, there was a sign for Laaloa Street, and a postage-stamp-sized neighborhood of older, unmatched houses, the antithesis of the large, sterile housing developments we’d passed between Honolulu and Waipahu. As Edwin turned off to his neighborhood he stuck a fist out the window and wagged it, his pinkie and thumb skyward.

“What does he mean?” Hiroshi wondered aloud. “Are we doing something wrong?”

“No, no, Ojisan!” I explained to him that the shaka sign was a greeting that supposedly originated with a plantation laborer who’d lost some fingers in the line of work. People waved back to him making their own hand signals two-fingered ones, as a show of respect. Now the shaka sign was the standard wave used everywhere in Hawaii.

The exit to Kainani was hard to miss: a hibiscus-edged, Japanese-style arched bridge. As I slowly took the exit, which crossed back over the highway to the ocean, the yellow-brown landscape dissolved into a Technicolor golf course. To my left was a large pond where lazy black swans pecked around the edge; to the right was a gated community of grand, 1920s-modeled villas the color of orange sherbet.

We’d all rolled down our windows long ago, a reaction to the car’s non-functioning air-conditioning, and now trade winds gently rippled through the minivan. Trade winds, one of the prettiest phrases I knew.

“This place was built by a Japanese developer,” Uncle Hiroshi said. “It’s as pretty as in the Internet photographs, I think. Is it all right for you?”

“It’s lovely,” I said. Despite my belief in supporting native plant landscaping, I was secretly relieved that we wouldn’t be staying in the middle of a brown field. “You can’t always believe what you see or read on the Internet, but this looks postcard perfect.”

“Check out the golf course,” Tom said. “Eighteen holes, and the golf club is supposed to have one of the island’s top Japanese restaurants.”

“Top Japanese restaurants are expensive,” my father said. “Rei will be happy to cook; why, she’s been cooking for me this last month and I’ve lost five pounds.”

“That’s not much of an argument for my cooking,” I said, thinking that what had seemed like an act of love, feeding my father, might feel a little different if I was doing it non-stop for three men. “I just hope the kitchen has some pots and pans.”

“The kitchen is quite luxurious, I think. Would you care to see the photographs?” Tom started rummaging in his carry-on bag.

“Not now, thanks. Security’s ready to talk to us,” I said, because the cars ahead of us had all been cleared and now it was my turn to introduce myself at Kainani’s gatehouse.

After I’d given our name and the street address of the house we were renting, a handsome young man in a green-and-gold aloha shirt and trim khaki shorts handed me directions and an envelope with keys to our house on Plumeria Place. Plumeria was the name of the particular flower in the parking attendant’s hair, I remembered. Hawaii was coming back to me, fast.

I drove a half-mile farther, passing the Kainani Inn, a sprawling modern hotel on the beach side of the road. On the left was the fabled golf course, where a cluster of golfers had gathered to watch someone swing.

“Michelle Wie!” Uncle Hiroshi started thumping on his window, as if the star teenage golfer might wave. She didn’t notice, so I was forced to stop the car in order that Tom and Uncle Hiroshi could run to the golf course with a digital camera.

After ten minutes Hiroshi and Tom returned to the minivan, full of bubbly excitement over the young star. Finally we turned left at the small road cutting through the golf course that led to an elaborate iron gate with fancy pineapple designs and the name of the housing area, Pineapple Plantation. As the Aloha team member who’d given me the key had instructed, I waved the house key over a sensor and the gates parted to reveal a neighborhood of simple gray clapboard houses, each with a wraparound white wooden porch called a lanai. Another gorgeous word that had returned to my memory. Despite my intentions, I was really getting excited about being in Hawaii.

“Well done, Rei-chan!” Tom said, practically jumping out of the car when I’d pulled into the driveway. I slowly got out of the car, still studying the house. It was clearly part of a mass development, but its simple, well-balanced design was architecturally pleasing, albeit American. The only factor that made these homes feel Polynesian was the landscaping: vigorous shrubs like ginger, breadfruit trees, and several species of palm. Thick banks of orange-spotted lauae ferns lined the walkway to the house, not quite covering the sprinkler heads set into the ground. I smelled plumeria everywhere, its dainty white blooms on small trees that looked as if they’d been planted only recently.

Inside, the house plan was modern. The heart of the home was a high-ceilinged kitchen with granite counters and stainless appliances including a professional-looking juicer. As my father exclaimed over it, I looked past the pot rack hanging with anodized aluminum pans and across the neutrally furnished living room to huge windows showing views of the beautiful green lawns. So this is what you could get on the Leeward Side of Oahu for four thousand dollars a month-not bad, if you compared it to the cost of a Waikiki double.

Two bedrooms and baths were upstairs, one of which would be for Hiroshi and my father, and the other for Tom. I would sleep downstairs in my own bedroom, which was delightful because the room had its own lanai. Instead of using the downstairs air-conditioner, I could turn on the fan over my bed and open the sliding lanai door to the trade winds.

I lay down on my bed, intending to close my eyes only briefly. The ceiling fan whirred lazily overhead, and trade winds came through the sliding doors I’d opened to the garden. I heard the sound of a strange bird singing its evening song, and the laughter of children somewhere farther away.

Through my slightly opened bedroom door, I overheard my father speaking Japanese on the telephone, probably to someone at the hotel’s Japanese restaurant. Yes, he was ordering sashimi, rice, and of course, miso soup. In some corner of my consciousness, I remembered that my father shouldn’t eat miso because of the sodium levels. But I was too tired to intervene, too tired to do anything but lose myself in the soft purple twilight.